Double Shot

girdling the rental house yard while I tried to think. Again, the scent of smoke made me shiver. Frances had said the fire would be contained by morning. Our town was almost nine miles from the preserve, but the smoke stinging my eyes made it seem as if the blaze was right down the street.

Okay, I reminded myself, Think. Boyd had told me the cops knew about the Smurfs John Richard was running to launder money. But if the Jerk was laundering what folks brought to him, why would he also need to visit a bank in Spruce?

Because he was skimming? Had that been why he’d been killed, and his house ransacked?

It still didn’t make sense. I stared at the curb, where pearly rose petals now dappled the shiny ravines of dust. For a moment, I thought I saw some gold glittering in the gravel. But I reminded myself if was probably just pyrite, “fool’s gold,” of which we had an abundance in Colorado. And speaking of fools and their gold, I had another question. If someone was stealing from you, and you were going to kill him for it, wouldn’t you try to find the money first, then shoot later?

The van door slammed. Arch called, “I’m ready, Mom,” and slid into the front seat.

“How’re you doing?” I asked, once we were zooming back home.

“Okay,” he said, his voice weary. “You know who all this investigating makes me feel sorry for?” If he said his father, I was going to scream. But he didn’t. “It makes me feel bad for Tom. You see how much goes into an investigation, and you think, here Tom caught somebody who drowned somebody else, and he lost in court. No wonder Tom’s been down lately. You know, not his usual joking self.”

A rock was forming in my chest. No wonder, indeed.

At home, though, Tom was whistling in the kitchen as he prepared dinner for the three of us: a giant submarine sandwich that was an elaborate affair put together with ingredients from his recent mammoth shopping trip. He’d scooped bread out of a large baguette, filled the center with a heavenly mixture of three Italian cheeses, sausages, salami, sliced garden tomatoes, and arugula, then topped the whole thing with his own garlic dressing. By the time we tumbled into the kitchen to see what he was up to, he was wrapping the sandwich before starting its weighting-down time in the refrigerator, which would help meld all the flavors. In a couple of hours, we would have a feast. No one eats dinner early in the summertime, anyway.

“How are you doing, Tom?” Arch asked, his voice full of concern.

Tom’s head shot up at the unusual question from Arch. I could still see the pain in Tom’s eyes, the heavy weight that seemed to have settled permanently on his shoulders. But I also could tell that he didn’t want Arch to be worrying about him.

“I’m doing well, thank you, Arch.” Tom pulled out two chilled soft drinks and place them on the kitchen table for us. “You guys look whipped, though. How’d it go at your dad’s house?”

Arch took a long swig of pop before recounting an abbreviated version of the trip to Stoneberry Lane.

“So,” Tom mused, “a safety-deposit box, eh? What do you suppose is in there?”

“Bones,” Arch said without irony, before announcing he was going upstairs to call Todd. At the kitchen door, he stopped and cast a long look at Tom. “I’m really sorry about your lost case, Tom.”

Again startled by this sudden interest in his well-being, Tom gaped at Arch. Quickly recovering his composure, Tom replied, “Thanks for the concern, buddy. I’m sorry for your loss, too.”

“I know.” Arch spun slowly and retreated.

Tom’s green eyes questioned me and I shrugged. He muttered something about wonders not ceasing as he placed the sandwich between cookie sheets, laid two stones on top, and put the whole thing in to chill.

“All right, Miss G. You still testing pies?”

“I am. So?”

“After you start on a new pie, I’ve got a story to tell you.”

“Why not just tell me now?”

“Because I want it to be a story for you, not a call to action.”

“Great.” But I booted up the computer and printed out the recipes I’d been working on: crust made with butter and toasted filberts, crust made with butter-flavored shortening, crust made with lard, crust made with a combination of butter and lard.

“And for the filling?” Tom asked.

“I ordered many, many pounds of strawberries from Alicia. My dear supplier said they were the best she’d ever tasted. Plus, this time I’m going to omit the cream filling and just concentrate on the strawberries.” I paused. “What are you doing?”

Tom chuckled as he foraged in the cupboard. “I think we need a chocolate treat.” If I’d ever doubted my maxim that cooking was good therapy, Tom’s first laugh in six weeks was proof enough.

“Are you going to tell me this story?” I asked, once I was rinsing fat, juicy strawberries.

Tom began, “You know how the rain washed out some dirt roads the other night?” I nodded. “It also washed things into the street—in this case, a dumped item that was found not far from Stoneberry. Our guys are thinking this thing rolled down Korman’s driveway and into the street, or else our killer tossed it from the getaway car. So you have the dirt from the street, plus all that dust from Tuesday’s big wind. After that, we had a hailstorm, and after that, a dog got hold of it, took it home, and chewed on it.” I stopped slicing and stared at him. “But as it turned out, the dog’s owner was giving a barbecue last night, and when he was picking up his yard, he found it and figured out some of the mess on it was from his dog’s teeth and the rest was from… something else.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The reason Korman’s neighbors didn’t hear the gun going boom was that it had a homemade silencer on it. A pink tennis ball.” He stopped sifting ingredients and opened an envelope. He handed me a Polaroid of something smashed, dirty, and perhaps a bit pink.

“Where’d you get this?”

“Boyd. Our guys went out looking for Bobby Calhoun this afternoon, but he’s up fighting the fire, and can’t be reached. Then they got the call about the tennis ball. A judge signed a quick warrant to search Courtney’s country- club locker. Didn’t find anything. But in the tennis shop? Where the players keep their balls in cubbies with their names on them, sort of like kindergartners? Courtney’s cubby had three cans of tennis balls. Two were closed and one was open. The open can had two tennis balls in it. Who opens a can and just takes out one ball? Our guys are talking to Courtney now.”

I shook my head. Back to the Courtney theory. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Means? Bobby Calhoun wasn’t the only one who could own a Ruger. If Courtney had hired a professional hit man, then that guy might be the one who’d committed the murder in Denver all those months ago.

I measured the strawberries, then mixed together a judicious amount of flour, cornstarch, and sugar. I said, “So did you find out who was killed with the Ruger in Denver?”

From the envelope, Tom retrieved two more items. One was a poor-quality copy of what looked like an employee-of-the-month photo. The man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, had thick glasses and a thin, handsome face. The other photo was of even worse quality, and showed a couple. The woman was young and pretty, with lots of curly hair. They looked as if they were at a party. “The guy, Quentin Drake, was killed in broad daylight on a street in Denver. Quentin and his wife, Ruby, lived in a trailer in Golden.”

“Ruby Drake?” That name was familiar. “Can you find out any more about them? About him?” I stared at the picture of the couple. “I’ve seen this woman somewhere.”

“Preheat the oven to three-fifty for me, would you please, wife? You’re not going hauling down to Golden to interview a widow.”

I snapped the oven thermostat for him and slipped the pictures back in the envelope. Then I rolled out my newest dough experiment and fit it into a pie pan. “So, what do you know about this victim? Any points of comparison with the Jerk?”

“Quentin Drake was a computer geek for an engineering company before he got laid off. I don’t know about her. You’re not going after this guy’s killer, Goldy.”

I carefully stirred the strawberries into the sugar mixture and tried to sound nonchalant. “I know, I know. I’m just looking for a link.”

We worked in companionable silence for a while. I carefully placed the pie in the oven, taking care not to jiggle Tom’s brownie pan. He was washing the bespattered bowl and beaters and I was wiping the counters when